


Enamoured

by playwithdinos



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Male Solo, Pining, Sub Solas, touch starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 10:11:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14767628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playwithdinos/pseuds/playwithdinos
Summary: Solas finds himself, as always, enamoured by her.





	Enamoured

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cedarmoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/gifts).



> A little belated birthday present for [cedarmoons](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarmoons/pseuds/cedarmoons).

Solas finds himself, as always, enamoured by her. She is always on his mind, in even the smallest of ways—the curve of her smile after he calls her  _vhenan,_ the strength in her arm as she draws her bow, the sway in her step as she retreats from the rotunda with a coy glance over her shoulder.

He… has yet to follow, when she looks at him like that as she leaves a room. Though he longs to—more and more, of late, he finds himself staring down at his work after she’s gone, and the hours have turned late and there is not a soul who would see him slip into her room. And instead of working, of filling out reports for Liliana on the state of the Veil, or even mixing plaster and working on the fresco, he stares down at his papers and his books and thinks of her hand over his. Of the warmth of her fingertips brushing his knuckles, her breath hot on his ear as she leans over him to examine some passage a little more closely.

… Ah. But he has been thinking on that for nearly an hour, now. Imagining what it might have been like to simply twine his fingers in hers, and then turn his head and kiss her.

And then for his kisses to wander down. And for her to arch her neck, and for a soft satisfied  _gasp_  to escape her—

He draws in a sharp breath; and though it’s hardly more than cold mountain air passing through his throat, to his ears the sound echoes in the rotunda. His hands have balled into fists on his desk, and he hurriedly sets his quill aside before he breaks it.

He leans back in his chair, running a hand over his face, and finds his skin warm and slightly sweaty to the touch. A glance upward confirms the only light above him is in the rookery—everyone else has retired for the evening, even the Tranquil. Perhaps it is fitting for him to do the same; too distracted by far to continue his work.

But then he must pass through the Great Hall—and as he does, he is reminded of the dress she was wearing when he last saw her there. Slim, and dark, with gleaming bracelets on her arms and a too-loud laugh as someone made a joke at some ambassador’s expense…

… And then Solas imagines that laugh turning husky, and low, as his hands run up under her skirts, as his hands find her ass under that dress and she grinds against him through his breeches—

His steps are perhaps more hurried than usual as he makes his way through the long hallways to his room. And perhaps he is less than courteous about the strength with which he closes his door behind him, plunging himself into darkness.

He leans against the door, and he knows that the air is cold, that normally it is a relief to crawl under his heavy blankets and escape into the Fade. He knows this—but he stands there, trembling, and every breath he takes is a hot, desperate pant as his head rolls back and he tries to think of— _anything_ , anything at all but her pinning him to the door with one hand to his chest, the muscles in that arm straining as she reaches down, and slips her other hand into his breeches.

He whines. It’s his own hands reaching now, hurriedly unlacing, just enough to free himself. It’s almost jarring, the feel of his own hand around his cock—hard already, hardening still—as hers would be smaller. Calloused, certainly—he wishes now he  _had_ held her hand, when he saw her last, wishes he could imagine more precisely the feel of her as his hand pumps his cock, gently, not too desperate yet,  _too dry_ —

He writhes against the door. He thinks, dimly, of the bed—and maybe he pants it into the air, or imagines that he does, because in his mind she laughs again, low and dark and  _oh so sweet_ , before she leans in and whispers,  _No, arasha. Here. Just like this._

His knees tremble. Whatever reply he has to offer her, or the image of her, he chokes on it instead.

He drags his hand over his leaking tip—and his toes curl, and he nearly pitches forward.

But she has him. Or rather—he corrects himself. Or  _maybe_  she presses him more firmly to the door, and maybe she moves a little more closer, and maybe his hand grabs a fistful of that dress, and maybe he gathers it around her hips as she pumps his cock, as she leans in close and kisses his neck, right where his pulse flutters.

He can’t feel enough of her. He can’t feel her at  _all_ , because she’s not here, he’s barely managing to cling to the door with one hand while he thrusts into the other—

“Vhenan,” he whines. “Vhenan—I—“

He gets a hand under the skirts of her dress. And under the dress there is only soft, warm skin—there is only  _her_ , her legs and the curve of her hip and her ass, and he digs his fingers in there to pull her closer still. His other hand tangles in her hair, and he holds onto her desperately.

His chest aches where she’s got him pinned. His cock is throbbing, impossibly hard, as she increases her pace, as she starts to rock against him a little, though he doesn’t have the balance to offer her a leg to grind down on—

(Because she’s not here, and he’s fucking himself against a door.)

—and he is whispering her name, every name he has for her. “Beloved, my heart, beautiful, my love,  _ma vhenan_ , yes, yes, let me please you too,  _please don’t stop_ —“

She bites his neck, and he comes onto that beautiful dark dress.

—Or he comes, and his legs finally give out.

He slides down the door, gasping as his cock throbs, and he manages to stay on his knees as he spills in spurts on the cold stone floor. His hand pumping, still, as if it’s hers instead—as if she wants to coax everything out of him. His back to the door, his legs curled beneath him, barely out of his breeches, he keeps moving his hand, slowing down, his eyes closed, trying to picture what she might look like in the aftermath. How she might look down on him, eyes bright and pupils blown with lust as she watches him catch his breath.

His hand stops when he is too sensitive to continue. A whine escapes him, even though he knows she is not there to hear it, and he imagines her humming a soft apology before leaning in to kiss him. Gently, softly.  _You did so good_ , she might tell him, her fingers curling against his chest.  _You’re so beautiful, all worked up over me_.

His chest heaves, but there are no sweet nothings whispered in his ear. As the racing of his heart slows, there is no one there to clean him, or the floor—there is no one to help him to his feet, or out of his too-warm clothing, now slick with sweat.

He stands on his own, on unsteady legs. He shirks off the breeches, wincing at the ache in them just from managing to stay upright as long as he had. He finds a cloth with which to clean himself, and then the mess on the floor. And then he pulls off the rest of his clothing—and as he turns to his bed, he runs a hand over his face.

That may have been… massively inappropriate of him. But clearly it is out of his system now—which is good, because a coy glance over her shoulder as she leaves is not the same as pinning him to a door and…

Well.

That.

With a heavy sigh, he crawls into bed. And he lies on his back and closes his eyes…

… and wonders what she might look like with the skirts of that dress hiked up around her waist and her legs spread before him.


End file.
